Cold spring, p.14
Cold Spring, page 14
‘And you assumed, therefore, that he murdered Paddy Canty. It doesn’t add up.’
‘You think I’m wrong, then?’
‘You may be right, of course, but you can’t depend on it.’
‘So what should I do?’
‘I think you should take him to the barracks and tell your story to McNally. You may be in trouble for depriving him of his liberty for two whole days but that’s better than having his death on your conscience.’
‘A man who goes to law can have no idea where it all will end. I’ve never stood inside a courtroom; I’ve always solved my own problems in my own way.’
‘The law has its uses,’ Daniel said. ‘It has the force of right behind it.’
‘If McNally says Ambrose has no case to answer, he’ll still be in danger from the Triangle when he’s released. Then I’ll have his death on my conscience anyway, and so will you.’
‘You won’t be directly implicated and neither will I. It will happen at one remove away. That’s different from allowing an innocent man in your care to die of thirst and hunger.’
‘It wouldn’t be murder but suicide—death by his own decision.’
‘You could be had up for manslaughter.’
‘Look, Daniel. Ambrose is an educated man and so are you. If you talk to him, he’ll listen to you. He doesn’t take me seriously, he thinks I’m a simpleton, you see.’
‘What can I say to him that you haven’t said already?’
‘It isn’t what you say; it’s how you say it. You know how to put things. A word from your mouth will mean more than ten from mine.’
‘As I see it, it wouldn’t make a ha’p’orth of difference. You don’t know Ambrose. He sees himself as an artist with a mission. In his thinking he’s as hard as flint stone. He probably sees all this as a test of his integrity. If he’s innocent, he won’t budge.’
He could see that Daniel didn’t want to get involved. He was a thinking man who could take in the consequences of any action at a glance.
‘You feel he’s innocent, then?’
‘That’s how it looks to me.’
‘And that’s your final word?’
‘I’m sorry, Tom. I can’t help you with this one. It’s a mile beyond my reach.’
Tom knocked out his pipe on the toecap of his boot. One of the cormorants was pecking at the shoulder of the bird next to her.
‘How long can a man last without food and water?
‘He’ll last longer without food than he would without water. I would say that three days without water would test any man. Of course, it may depend to some extent on the temperature. He won’t sweat much in this weather.’
‘Three days, you say? I’ve only one day left.’
‘If I were you, I’d take him to the barracks. This problem is too big for any man to handle alone.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
Tom got up and stood looking out at the horizon, which had melted into the sky, or perhaps the sky had melted into the sea. The boundaries between things were vanishing before his eyes. The cormorants had gone. The Stuaic was bare.
‘Strange how cormorants come and go without rhyme or reason!’ He seemed to be talking to himself.
‘There were three of them on the Stuaic just now, but something must have frightened them,’ Daniel said. ‘They took off for Bud a’ Diabhail, one after the other.’
‘They’re the devil’s own bird, so they are. They’re good for nothing but eating and shitting.’ The vehemence of his voice surprised him.
‘I wouldn’t mind having their capacity to withstand cold.’
‘Sure, gulls and gannets are the same. Maybe what we all need is a coat of feathers.’
‘Soon it will be time for the lobster fishing,’ Daniel said.
‘You’ll come out with us one evening. By then all this will be over.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
He watched as Daniel continued on his walk, his right arm swinging and his left hand in his trousers pocket. Some days he went north, others south. Today he was heading south for the Tower. He was a good man, was Daniel, but he agonised over every little thing. Unlike Muiris, he was too scrupulous to be strong.
* * *
That evening Muiris invited the men of the townland, apart from Daniel and Tom Barron, to a meeting. By nine o’clock they’d all arrived, except Red Miller, whose cow had just calved. Muiris poured drinks even more generously than usual, and they all seemed to drink with greater gusto than usual. Relaxing in their seats like a theatre audience before the curtain goes up, they talked about the approaching lobster season. Everyone knew what was on everyone else’s mind, but they were all leaving it to Muiris to broach the one and only subject.
‘Red Miller doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. The news about Ambrose surprised even me,’ Muiris said finally.
‘It was very sudden.’ Cormac put on a serious face.
‘It had to be sudden,’ his friend Marcus reminded them.
‘You’re right,’ said Muiris. ‘A bolt from the blue. It’s the divine nature of the act.’
‘The nature of the beast,’ Neil Durkin corrected.
‘Still, it’s strange to think we’ll never see him again,’ Cormac mused.
Red Miller arrived at ten. Muiris pulled up a chair for him and gave him the full glass of poteen he’d already poured in readiness.
‘Was it a heifer calf?’ he asked.
‘No, a fine bull calf.’ Red Miller pursed his lips.
‘The arse fell out of the market for bull calves years ago,’ Muiris remarked.
‘You can say that again,’ Cormac nodded. ‘Sure, you can’t give bull calves away these days.’
‘He’ll make good veal in two months’ time,’ Red Miller said seriously. ‘He’s good for nothing else.’
‘We should look at the bright side,’ Muiris advised. ‘With Ambrose gone, we can all sleep sound in our beds again. It’s a job that had to be done, and now that it’s done, it’s well done.’
‘It’s all a great mystery,’ Neil Durkin remarked. ‘Only one man knows how he met his end and where his bones are resting.’
‘And that’s how it should be. A secret is a secret. We won’t enquire. If no one knows, no one can spill the beans.’ Muiris raised his hand, as if to emphasise finality.
‘It’s a story without an ending, and that’s a pity,’ Neil Durkin said. ‘Whoever tells it when we’re gone will have to make up an ending.’
‘Ending or no ending, he was a great nuisance,’ Cormac said. ‘I lost enough turf from the shed to keep any house going for the longest winter.’
‘What will we do now with all the extra turnips, potatoes and eggs?’ Marcus Quinn wondered.
‘None of those things mattered,’ Muiris said. ‘What matters is that Paddy can rest in peace now that justice is finally done. So let’s drink to his memory.’
‘To Paddy,’ they all echoed, before draining their glasses.
Muiris poured more poteen for everyone except himself. As was his custom, he partook of a hot whiskey with extra cloves and sugar.
‘I ran into the Sergeant in Cashel this afternoon,’ he said. ‘He’s putting a watch on all the ports.’
‘Well, isn’t that a good one,’ Cormac smiled.
‘Little does he know.’ Marcus Quinn looked at Red Miller, who looked down into his glass.
‘The things that go on behind a man’s back!’ Neil Durkin slapped his thigh.
‘I told him not to forget the airports,’ Muiris said. ‘“We must make sure the bastard is caught,” says I.’
Muiris exposed his teeth in silent laughter as his lower jaw trembled uncontrollably. Neil Durkin slapped his thigh again, and Cormac said, ‘Well, that’s the best I ever heard.’
They all looked a bit flushed, or perhaps it was just the firelight playing on their cheeks. Gradually, they became serious as their conversation returned to practical, everyday things. Lobster creels had to be repaired in readiness for the new season, covers knitted and byan nets darned. And to cap it all, this year’s turf had to be cut and won.
‘There’s no rest for the wicked,’ Cormac said.
‘No rest at all,’ his friend Marcus Quinn agreed.
16
Daniel and Sheila seemed happy to look after Emily for two or three days. When they’d heard that she was going to Dublin to sell her paintings, they were more than sympathetic; they knew she needed the money to get by. The swaying of the bus soon lulled her into a reverie that overprinted her awareness of the conductor and other passengers. She kept re-imagining Nick as he used to be: their first meeting in the Municipal Gallery and how relaxed he looked in his Aran sweater and cords. She had spotted him before he spotted her, and she stood admiring a late Corot, half-aware of a hovering somewhere in the emptiness behind her.
‘They say he painted it on his deathbed.’ She recognised the voice as English, but not posh English.
‘Then there’s hope for us all,’ she said, turning to look at him.
‘You mean we’ll finally get there in extreme old age?’
Here, she thought, was an outgoing, straightforward man who’d never feel out of place at any time or in any country. It was her first impression of him, and how wrong it turned out to be. Most days found him sunk in the quicksands of the self, unmanned by a paralysis of the will brought on by too much self-questioning. Worst of all, he had no idea what made other people tick. In the rough-and-tumble world of indifferent men he was an unarmed innocent. His vulnerability was plain for all to see, and those who saw were not slow to take advantage. He himself was not unaware of his predicament. He once said that life was a naked run through a thorny wood in the dark.
On the fateful night of Paddy Canty’s murder he came home in a state of shock. He could barely find the words to say he didn’t do it. Naturally, she believed him. Now she was no longer certain. Why, if he was innocent, had he left her in the lurch? Would he seek out the anonymity of the city? He was probably holed up in Dublin, if not in London. Even in London he would probably avoid his usual haunts.
She went straight to the art shop and sold her paintings. The dealer could see that she was desperate. She parted with them for less than she would have liked. Afterwards she phoned Brendan Hurley and arranged to meet him in Neary’s, a comfortable old pub that was not among Nick’s favourite haunts. Over the first drink she told him her story. He listened with an occasional intake of breath. She could see that he felt uneasy. He kept looking around at the other drinkers, as if seeking an excuse to escape.
‘How long has this been going on?’ he asked.
‘Two months or more.’
‘Two months! You should have told me earlier. I had no idea.’
‘No idea of what?’
‘You may be sure the police are taking an interest in your every move. For all you know, they may have followed you here. They’ll be keeping an eye on you, hoping you’ll get in touch with Nick.’
‘I don’t care, I have nothing to hide. If I know Nick, he’s in London by now.’
‘I don’t like it. Innocent or guilty, steer clear of the police has always been my policy.’
‘Surely, you needn’t worry.’
‘Delma works in the Civil Service. She’s very particular. I don’t think we can go back to the flat. We’ll go to a hotel instead. It’s small and discreet. No questions asked.’
A surge of anger filled her breast. Telling herself that she would not have her evening ruined by his bossy sister, she finished her drink and said that she had an urgent call to make. When she finally got rid of him, she phoned Paul Flynn and asked if they could meet. It was the kind of thing she wouldn’t have done a month ago. She felt used and put upon, and she blamed Nick for her wounded self-esteem.
Flynn was pleased to see her. He hugged her warmly and took her to one of her favourite restaurants. She enjoyed talking to him. She would have kept in touch with him if it hadn’t been for Nick. While he would never suspect Brendan Hurley, he saw Flynn as the enemy of all married men, which amused her because they used to see quite a lot of him in the old days. It was Flynn who first told them that the American artist Rockwell Kent had spent a summer in the townland next to Leaca, and that he had made some of his best paintings there.
‘You ought to see them,’ he said. ‘They’re quite original. They really capture the otherworldly atmosphere of the place. It could be the making of you both.’
‘What’s his game?’ Nick said afterwards.
‘He must have gone off us. I think he’s trying to get rid of us.’ She wanted to make him see the absurdity of his suspicions, but it was no good.
‘I know what it is. He has his eye on someone else’s wife, and needs you out of the way for a while.’
Now, as she looked across the table at Paul, it occurred to her that there was something pathetic about Nick, though she hadn’t seen it at the time. The restaurant menu was short, but she knew from experience that what it offered was good. She was hungry. She hadn’t had a decent meal in ages. She chose whitebait to start with because it was filling, and for the main course she chose entrecôte pizzaiola. Paul couldn’t have been hungry. She suspected that he might have already eaten. He had lobster bisque followed by grilled lemon sole with zucchini. Not a meal for a hearty eater, she told herself.
It was like old times. He amused her with the latest gossip. She told him about her painting and how she had come to Dublin to see her dealer. After her experience with Brendan Hurley, she felt reluctant to tell him about Nick.
‘How is Nick? Still contemplating his magnum opus?’ he asked finally.
‘He may be contemplating his navel for all I know. He walked out on me two days ago and I haven’t seen him since.’
She told him the whole story from start to finish. She couldn’t stay in Leaca on her own now, she said. She would come back to Dublin as soon as she managed to sort something out. He sounded sympathetic. He invited her back to his flat for coffee. He told her that there was a spare bed and that he’d be delighted to put her up for the night. The flat consisted of a living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. She washed her hair, and had a hot bath for the first time in six months. Cheekily, she put on his dressing gown, which she found hanging behind the bathroom door. He smiled and poured her a brandy. He put a record on the gramophone and sat beside her on the sofa. It was lovely being back in civilisation again. She felt as if someone was looking after her for a change.
He switched off the light, and they talked in the dark from their separate beds for a while.
‘Time for beddy-byes,’ he said finally, coming across to kiss her goodnight. Intuitively, she raised the covers and he slipped in beside her with an appreciative giggle. After the austerities of Leaca, she couldn’t help feeling that there was something quite magical about it all.
‘Will you ever get married?’ she asked when they’d made love twice.
‘Girls always ask me that.’
‘You must admit it’s unusual, being single at forty and so good in bed.’
‘I’m happy as I am,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t change my life for love or money.’
He was an early riser. He cooked breakfast for them both and told her as he left for the office that she was welcome to come and stay whenever she fancied. She felt so grateful that she could have wept.
* * *
Sharon would be worried. She wouldn’t know where to turn or what to do. Luckily, she had two or three paintings to sell. The money would keep her going till he’d managed to make Tom Barron see sense. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the most practical of people. Ignorant of all domestic economy, she spent money like water while she had it, living entirely for the hour and the day, leaving him to worry about tomorrow and the day after.
Her vulnerability had brought them together. She had come out of a scorching love affair with a man she described as ‘a brute in a three-piece suit’. She needed someone to look after her. She had turned to him because she considered him strong. He was drawn to her for different reasons, including her striking good looks. On that morning in the Municipal Gallery he couldn’t take his eyes off her from the moment she walked in the door. She was tall and slender and she moved with an unhurried fluency of limb and body. He stood behind her, observing her absorption in the painting and the light on the tresses of her auburn hair. She talked about Corot and how his paintings fell into two distinct periods. When he saw her own paintings, he told himself that here was a woman who conveyed enough mystery to last any man a lifetime.
After four years together, he now knew what to expect. She was sensitive and impetuous. Their blazing rows would always be followed by frenetic, self-destructive sex. With her, sex was never far from the surface. He could see it in her paintings, which hinted at a life of ungovernable desire and urgent need. When they first came to Leaca, she began by painting portraits of the neighbours. She was taken with their strongly angular faces, bony noses and knurled hands. She had a special gift for pastiche, choosing a style to suit each subject. For her portrait of Muiris, she chose vorticism. Muiris took one look at the finished work and told her that she should have painted the Gearrán instead. The following day he pointed out the granite boulder he had in mind, which gave her a new idea, though, of course, she did not share it with anyone.
Over the next few months she set about painting rock and cliff faces that bore a teasingly vague resemblance to human features. Some of the paintings were quite arresting, and they weren’t difficult to sell. From there she got the idea of painting the lichen on rock faces close up. The lichen formed imaginary tracery patterns, while the finished paintings hinted at an abstract design that refused to reveal its true centre, and tantalised observers with the feeling that the key to what they sought had been wilfully withheld. To him, it all reeked of intellectual trickery rather than art, but he omitted to enlighten her in the interest of domestic peace.
